Give yourself to me

I still need you

I’m falling, falling hard

Give yourself to me

I will save you

I’m falling, falling

Give into me

Give into me

His voice was hauntingly beautiful, each verse devilishly raw and sublimely angelic. The chorus filled me with such intense yearning I began to doubt my own sanity.

His voice beckoned me, and I felt compelled to respond. Thoughts of my friend were quickly overpowered by fantastic lewd images of the possible owner of such a mind-blowing voice. I turned around and began heading for the stage.

I’m sorry, Jen. He’s calling me.

I silently made a vow. I’d get to the front. For the both of us.

Leapfrogging over someone who was kneeling down and crying, her hands clasped together in prayer, I bumped into the back of a topless girl. Before I could apologize, she turned to face me. Her silver hair showed her age, and there was a crazy look in her eye along with foam teasing the edges of her mouth. "You’re not getting near my husband!" she screeched, pushing me backward.

There was no way Granny Cujo could be the singer’s wife. I considered using my pepper spray necklace on her but quickly decided against it—using it in such a cramped space meant I’d get hit along with everyone else.

Before I could contemplate the situation further, she balled her fist and wound back. Adrenaline rushed through my system. I instinctively ducked her punch and stumbled forward, disappearing into the horde of people in front of me.

"Get back here!" I heard her shriek from behind me like a banshee. My heart beat pulsed in my ear a thousand times a minute, my lungs burned, and my bare feet ached. Only moments ago, I’d been complaining to Jen about my stupid job assignment, and now I was running for my life. Between the naked people and the rabid granny, the situation was insane.

But I couldn’t stop moving toward the stage.

The crazy woman’s voice grew faint, overpowered by the thumping music and the sound of my own breaths. Squeezing past a flailing guy who was desperately trying to hold his kicking and screaming girlfriend from rushing the stage, I broke out to the front section of the audience. There were still rows of heads in front of me, but I could at least see the stage.

It had nearly killed me in the process, but I’d made it.

After a few quick, panting breaths, I raised my eyes to the stage and nearly fell backward at the sight of the man singing.

Holy. Fuck.

Towering in front of the mic stand, he exuded a near-tangible aura of intense sexual energy. I was forced to squint, as if the spotlights shining down came from him, not the ceiling. Lean but packed muscles in his arms rippled as he jammed his guitar. Flowing black hair framed equally dark eyes beneath arrogantly slashed brows. He had a sharply angled nose, full lips, and a thin layer of stubble covering a jawline that could have been chiseled out of granite. I’d never seen a man so savagely gorgeous. It was difficult to describe him as anything but a god—a rock god in a dark v-neck and black leather pants.

My breath caught in my chest as my heart danced in my ribcage. I figured he’d be hot—judging by his voice, he had to be—but confronted with the full visual effect of him performing, I realized he wasn’t just hot. No, he was beyond hot. He was scorching.

A feverish heat ripped through me as he passionately belted a verse and whipped his shoulder-length hair back. He jammed a chord from his hips, closed his eyes, and belted out another powerful verse, sending the crowd reeling. Each move gave the impression of raw animal magnetism. He didn’t just ooze sex. He was sex, made flesh. Every motion of his figure, every movement of his lips, the way his inky hair tossed against his marvelous features, and those eyes—those intensely dark eyes—it was as if he was directly f**king every woman in the crowd with his gaze.

He started scanning the audience. He gazed over my section, but he paused and turned back to look right at me.

My heart stopped.

Our eyes locked as he began singing the down-tempo bridge.

Something passed in the air between us, and I could’ve sworn I saw a spark in his eyes. A charge of electricity ran through me. Then, just like that, he finished the bridge and shifted his eyes to a different section of the crowd, freeing me from his gaze.

Had it been my imagination?

I looked around and saw glazed eyes staring at him. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who’d thought he had made eye contact.

Stepping away from the mic, he bent toward the front row and pulled an eager brunette onto the stage. She took a seat in a chair at the center. Other girls tried to jump onto the stage with her, but burly security personnel in the front row managed to hold them back—though it looked like they were struggling.

The Siren set his guitar down, took the mic off the stand, and sang to the brunette, crooning seductive notes as she squealed and gripped the edges of her chair tightly. I felt a pang of jealousy, wishing I’d been the one he’d chosen to bring on stage. Midway into the second chorus, the brunette moaned in ecstasy, slid off the chair and collapsed to her knees with her head back, lids closed, and thighs clamped together—clear signs of an orgasm. A shiver moved through me. My last boyfriend couldn’t make a woman come if he had half a sex toy store and a map at his disposal. This guy could do it with just his voice.

The brunette slumped on stage, apparently no longer able to stand. Members of the stage crew had to come out and carry her away, but she had the biggest smile on her face.

Shaking my head, I was starting to regain my senses. It was clear that any "connection" I’d imagined earlier was all just part of the show.

The Siren picked his guitar back up and returned to the mic stand. He started another song.

I stood there watching, listening. Entranced. I was vaguely aware of other members of the band, but in the middle of such a stunning performance,, my attention only focused on him.

He sang about pain and pleasure, desperation and elation. The lyrics seemed deeply personal. I vaguely wondered whether he wrote them himself and if so, where his inspiration came from.

When the set ended, I felt emotionally drained. How many songs did they sing? Two? Twenty? I didn’t know. I only became aware of the passage of time when the music stopped.

The male Siren unslung his guitar, tossed it backward to his bandmate, and hopped off the stage to the dance floor.

Without so much as looking back toward the stage, his eyes searched the crowd and then locked back onto mine just like earlier in the set. Tension coiled in my stomach as he began taking steps in my direction.

Toward me.

I wanted to move but couldn’t; it was impossible to pry myself from his gaze. The sea of bodies, rather than mobbing him, parted to create a path between us, the burly arms of security guards keeping them at bay.

The girl I passed earlier who was struggling against her boyfriend’s grasp squeezed past security, approaching the god from his right. Another girl approached from his left. They each latched onto one sleeve and yanked on the fabric. Within seconds, their panicking boyfriends were at their sides, tearing them away. But the girls held on tight and the god’s shirt split down the middle, one half going to each girl.

He didn’t react, and his steps didn’t falter. He continued moving toward me, his dark eyes maintaining their hold on mine.

My breath hitched in my throat. He was shirtless now, and I could see a melange of tattoos splayed across his sculpted chest and along his muscular arms. Nipple rings jostling with each step, he closed the distance between us.